When he was a tiny
thing, perhaps no more than two feet tall, his father would lift up
the small boy and place him upon his shoulders. His father
would then extend his arms, holding up his two pointer fingers.
"Grab on," he would say, and Patrick would reach out his short
little hands, enclosing his father's fingers in his own much
smaller ones.

Fly away, Pat.
Fly away.

And then they would
be off, soaring high in the sky, swooping and weaving and diving and
zooming to and fro. They were, of course, not truly flying.
His father would merely run wildly around the yard with the boy on
his shoulders – his feet certainly would never leave the ground.
But in young Patrick's eyes, with his body so far from the ground
than usual, and the trees and the clouds so much closer than they
ever were, and his arms spread wide – it certainly felt like he
was.

"Fly away, Pat,"
his father would yell, laughing, as he made another plummet or
swerve, and Patrick would tighten his hold on his dad's fingers, in
a beautiful rush of fear and exhilaration and love. "Fly
away."

And Patrick would
shoot high into the sky, coasting among the clouds, sailing far away.

Fly away, Pat.
Fly away.

"You're the
family bird, Pat," his father would say later, once they were done
with their flying lesson; he was more serious now than he had been
before. He would look down at his son tenderly. "And
you'll always be our bird. Someone who is fun and happy, who
enjoys to glide over the trees – but someone who's also
dependable, always ready to fly in and help at a moment's notice.
Don't ever forget that, alright?"

And Patrick would
always reply that he would never forget it, even if he didn't
really understand what his father was talking about at the time.

Fly away, Pat.
Fly away.

His car slammed into
the side of the truck, hard, sending him smashing against the
windshield; the force of this jerked him back against his car seat.
He sat there, shocked, bloody, with strange colors and shapes
distorting his vision.

Fly away, Pat.
Fly away.

His hands shook
horribly as he used his last moments to scrawl a note to Pendragon.
His heart was slowing, his body quivering, his blood seeping all over
the car.

"Good luck,
Pendragon," he used his last breath to gasp out, before taking
flight for the last time.

Fly away, Pat.
Fly away.

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